Pro Guiding Service - There Are No Bad Seasons

Northwestern skiers are calling fair weather foul this year. It's mid December and half of Washington's ski areas are still closed while some of those claiming to be open have such limited coverage they're hardly worth visiting. Some locals are suggesting we crucify the Holy Child, for whom El Nino is named. Others are lobbying for a name change--they're calling this weather phenomena, "La Puta."

I have no beefs, however. High fronts delivering 12 straight days of sunshine are unheard of during Northwestern Novembers. And although most skiers don't know it, that sunshine has kept Washington's largest ski area open. It's a ski area that dwarfs Whistler. It makes Vail look like a joke. It's a domain that's 25 miles wide and equally deep. It's the resort northwestern backcountry skiers call Washington Pass.

In a normal November, snow shuts down this pass marking the high point of the North Cascades Highway. But in a good El Nino winter, plowing crews can keep pace with the snowfall. Sparse though the snowfall may be, the rugged peaks flanking the road pull powder out of thin air.

It was in 1977, another drought year here in Washington, that I made the discovery that no snow in the ski areas needn't mean no skiing. I was hoping to make a December ascent of Monte Cristo Peak and climbed quickly through ankle deep snow to an alpine basin at 4000 feet surrounded by dark metamorphic towers and pocket glaciers. Shortly above the basin the snow mounted fast: Without skis, I was sinking into my calfs, my knees and, eventually, my thighs. Long before the top, my battle was lost.

Someone else had won his battle. Descending the steep slopes from a notch near the summit lay a solitary sine wave carved by a skier. It was a moment of enlightment. I understood: There was always good skiing to be found--if you knew where to look.

Which brings me back to 1997. The resort boys are still whining when the weatherman predicts an entire week of December sunshine. I smile and make a few phone calls. Rinaldo has just returned from picking plum lines at W

ashington Pass and it's good testimony that he agrees to go right back.

We decide to tackle the longest run in the area--the 5500-vertical-foot drop down Silver Star Mountain. The climb starts 2000 vertical feet below Washington Pass where the snow coverage is, admittedly, lame. We pack the skis for an hour before we are wading through snow. Eventually, boards go from back to foot, skins go from pack to skis, and we start touring. We climb into open glades of larch trees where stamp-sized crystals of hoarfrost have grown during the sub-zero nights of the past week.

We rise above timberline onto the Silver Star Glacier, the granite fingers of the Wine Spires jutting like skyscrapers out of the surrounding ice. After many sweaty hours of climbing, we emerge on a summit where open slopes, couloirs, and avalanche gullies litter our viewshed. It will require decades of "bad" ski years to ski this area out.

Today's ski descent starts on snow that has been wind hammered into hardpack. We make cautious turns down the initial steeps knowing that a slip will introduce us to the bite of a bergschrund laying 500 vertical feet below. Lower on the glacier, the skis penetrate several inches of styrofoam snow and we carve long-radius turns. Lower still, the glacier spills down a 40-degree slope that has escaped the wind. Here, we sew two lines of tight stitches through the type of snow resort- skiers can only dream about this year.

Below the glacier, the tips of stunted larch trees vegetate an otherwise naked bowl. The snow is capped by huge hoarfrost crystals and as we slalom around the wooden gates of larch trees, those crystals disintigrate in our wake. They hiss behind us, leaving us with the impression that whitewater is chasing us down the mountain. In a manner of speaking, it is.

We enter a zone where we can't afford carelessness. Deadfall below the surface can anchor submerged skis and buried snags can easily skewer flesh. We ski slowly, plotting each series of turns before stopping to plot again. Finally, when rocks start assaulting our ski bases, we become the mules of our boards again.

Back at the car, an acquaintance sees us loading the skis and stops to chat. He lives 12 miles to the east in the hamlet of Mazama and guides for North Cascades Heli-Skiing, the local operation that, come January, will be flying more-monied skiers into the slopes around Washington Pass.

He asks about our day. "Wasn't great snow throughout," I tell him "but it was a great day."

He launches into a spiel about what an outstanding season it's been here at the pass...about skiing powder since October. Then he drops a line that might get him stoned in Seattle, "As far as I'm concerned, El Nino can come back next year."